


Grimmons Prompts v3

by LegendaryBard



Series: Ten One-Word Prompts [6]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 10:23:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16785055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendaryBard/pseuds/LegendaryBard
Summary: Some short little Grimmons prompts, based on a random word generator. You all know the drill by now.( Part 3 )





	Grimmons Prompts v3

**Author's Note:**

> Brief note about the rating: There's descriptions of INCREDIBLY casual sex. As in, people talking about sex, but not actually doing it, though it's in detail. Read at your own caution? 
> 
> ( If there was a rating between Teen and Mature, that's what this is. )

**DRINK**

“It's your turn,” Grif drawls, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Shoot.”

“Uhh... Have you... Ever done drugs before?” Simmons attempts to philosophically swirl the whiskey in his shitty, standard-issue UNSC plastic cup. The stuff is lukewarm and burns his throat, and honestly, he doesn’t like alcohol that much. But Grif does. And it makes Simmons look sophisticated.

“Duh. Now, have _you-”_ Grif begins.

“Wh- wait, you’ve done _drugs?_ What kind!?” Simmons straightens.

“It’s not your _turn,_ Simmons,” Grif responds, testily. “Have _you_ ever had a girlfriend?”

“Wait, but the drugs-”

“It’s not your _turn!_ Girlfriend or no girlfriend, Simmons?!”

Simmons puckers his lips, and pretends to be thinking about it. Hemming and hawing, weighing his answers, judging, as if he’s calculating how close one must be in order to be a “girlfriend”. In reality, he’s trying to put off answering as much as possible, hoping, perhaps, Grif will change the subject if he takes long enough. The answer is no, he’s never had a girlfriend. Obviously. Grif probably knows that.

Grif is undeterred by his ponderous, thoughtful silence. “It’s a yes-or-no question, Simmons!”

“I had an internet girlfriend once,” He concedes.

“She was probably a dude.” Grif says, gesturing with his slate-grey plastic cup. A droplet or two of whiskey manages to slosh over the rim. “They always are.”

“... Yeah…” Simmons grumbles. He’s surprised Grif hasn’t ridiculed him for having no girlfriends, but perhaps, Grif hasn’t had any either. There’s a sort of equity of losers; Grif knows Simmons will call him out if he tries to poke fun, so he doesn’t.

… Though, it’s never stopped him before.

“What kind of drugs did you do?” Simmons asks, leaning forward.

“If you’re thinking I’m a crackhead or some shit, you’re wrong,” Grif says. “It was just some weed.”

Simmons sags, slightly. Grif didn’t seem like a meth addict or anything, but it wouldn’t surprise Simmons if he was a fan of mushrooms, or opioids… This kind of seems like the best of all the options.

“Oh.”

“Did you ever have any _boyfriends?”_ Grif asks, dark eyes raptly pinned on Simmons’ face. There’s a wicked sort of half-smile on his lips, partially hidden behind his cup when he drinks.

“No,” Simmons sniffs. He abandons the pretense of having to think about it, and retains some dignity.

“Did you ever w-”

“Hey,” Simmons turns his head to glare. “That sounded like a _question,_ Grif. It’s my turn.”

Grif scowls, and chugs more booze. “Fine. What?”

Simmons thinks.

“Simmons,” Grif says, in that bunched-up way of his whenever he’s mad. _Simmins._

“I’m _thinking,”_ Simmons says, raising the intimidating whiskey to his lips. He sips. It’s all… Smokey… And sharp. And makes him cough.

Grif mutters something annoyed under his breath.

Simmons casts out his mind, fishing for the thing one would ask while out on watch at midnight, in the company of a slightly buzzed Grif and a bottle of bitter whiskey. When he was young there weren’t really _social functions_ like this. There was no partying, even in college, no booze, no gossip. He was limited to D&D parties with grape juice in ornate goblets and Evans’s mom’s baked Lembas bread, and a DM who had his voice crack more often than the skulls under Simmons’s barbarian’s mace. Maybe, every so often, there was a honking, haltering voice asking the dungeon master to describe a beautiful maiden’s giant boobs, or pretending they were all getting smashed from imaginary tavern ale; but not THIS kind of stuff.

“SIMMINS,” Grif nudges him, angrily, and interrupts Simmons’s reminiscing.

“Have you ever jerked off to a dude?” Simmons asks, the first thing he can think of.

Grif spits out his whiskey.

**SMILING**

“What’s he… Doin’ with his mouth,” Sarge growls, suspiciously, glaring at Grif and Simmons from a distance. Sarge had a recently proposed theories about how spying on your _own_ soldiers was nearly as effective as spying on the enemy ones, and he and Donut were giving it a trial run.

“Smiling, Sarge,” Donut cheeps, helpfully. “I’ve never seen Grif _smile_ before! His lips would never be stretched like that unless it was something big!”

“He’s just talkin’ to Simmons,” Sarge says, distrustfully. “I don’t see what’s so special about it. They do that all the time. Especially when they should be working.” Realization dawns on the sergeant. “Like _right now!_ Hey, NUMBNUTS!”

Simmons whips around, his face pasty and white from faraway, the metal bits gleaming in the sun. His smile quickly evaporates in the presence of a superior. Grif only slightly turns his head, to catch the image of Sarge in the corner of his eye; his face tightens, grin replaced with a scowl, and he leans away from Simmons, who hastily scampers up to meet Sarge, a million excuses on his newly downturned lips.

But for a moment- as fleeting as mist in sunshine, Donut notes, or lube when it’s set on fire- they had been enjoying one another, in perceived privacy, laughing at the other’s jokes and beaming like the moon.

It’s almost sweet. He’ll need to write a diary entry about it.

**LIE**

Grif told lies the same way people breathe air, so long as he wasn’t under pressure. If it was something like, _hey, did you clean the base,_ he could easily breeze, “yeah, duh”, even if he knew that what would happen would be either Sarge, Donut, Simmons, or Lopez would go check and he would get yelled at. Lying was nearly as easy as the truth, now, and came more instinctively, as an automatic response to any kind of innocent, or at least, non-malicious, query that could get him in trouble.

“So… Are you and Simmons, like, gay?” Tucker asks.

Lying, like he said, is defensive and automatic. But he falters for a second, and then recovers with: “What’s that supposed to mean?”, which is neither truth NOR a lie, and therefore, the safest of all options, especially since it implies great offense.

Tucker is frustratingly nonchalant. “You guys hang out a lot, that’s all.”

“You and Church hung out a lot. You and Caboose, too.”

“I don’t hang out with him, he won’t fuck off!” Tucker groans.

“See, yeah, that’s what it’s like with Simmons.” Grif says. “So being next to somebody doesn’t mean you’re gay.”

“Yeah, but _I’m_ not gay because I’m so popular with the chicks. If I went after dudes, there’d be less of me to go to girls. You and nerdzilla don’t have a chance with the ladies, so you can be gay and there’s no loss.” Tucker reasons.

“Okay, have you literally ever gotten laid? Ever?”

“Have you ever boned Simmons?” Tucker asks back, continuing to be flippant and both mature and immature at the same time.

“Why do _you_ care?” Grif asks, suspiciously.

“Dude, I don’t. I’m just trying to literally do anything else other than think about how Wash is in the fucking clutches of some evil empire assholes who’re probably killing and torturing him right now.”

There’s a little bit of quiet.

“Want a smoke?” Grif offers, and if you know him, that’s shockingly generous. Fall-out-of-your-chair kind of shockingly generous. He produces a cigarette seemingly from magic, offering it to Tucker.

“Where the _fuck_ did you get that?” Tucker marvels, taking it from him. It doesn’t even seem weird that Grif magicks a lighter from nowhere, too, and takes off his helmet to have a puff of his own cigarette. There’s a slight start when Tucker sees his Frankenstein face, but it’s chill.

“Oh, you know.”

“No, I don’t know.” Tucker says. Grif waves an unconcerned hand.

“From places.”

“Places?”

“Places,” Grif confirms.   
  
“The same places you go off to to fuck Simmons?” Tucker asks, coy.

“I have not, and will not, fuck Simmons.” Grif deadpans.

He’s good at telling lies. Lots of experience.

Tucker even believes him.

**PUSH**

A _push_ can come in a lot of forms.

Words not spoken, wanting to come out.

Steadying touches from shaky fingers, seeking reassurance.

Gasps and tight grips around someone else’s body, cradling themself, because you’re too cowardly to do it.

Regret, thick and hollow, in your stomach, coating your innards until all you can think about is correcting your mistake, obsessively, until your spiral into a world-ending madness.

The sight of a hand grabbing a branch, a thousand foot drop into the depths, glaciers that are a deep navy, and water that is nearly black.

 _“Simmooooons!”,_ a wail, desperate, that is so different from the snide undertones you’re used to. _“Grab my hand!”_

A physical affront to your chest when you dwell on what happened, what could’ve been. Even now you dream of it; the sheer, glistening white cliff face, the contrast of orange armor, the ice floes that jutted up like eager teeth in a monster’s maw, waiting to devour, amidst the tarry water far below.

The _push_ is all of these things, together. It makes you creep into the darkness of night, into Valhalla, and sink into the mattress that is too dirty for your standards. It makes you touch, with your cold hands, the warm skin, and love the fact that it is _warm_ and _alive_ and _feeling._

You wrap your arms around and hold tight, because if you don’t, he may plunge into the abyss.

**ADVENTUROUS**

“I hate doing other people’s work,” Grif says, petulantly.

“Me too,” Simmons admits, gloomily.

“Where is your sense of adventure?” Caboose asks, stilted in his usual way. “Where”, brief pause, “is your”, with the words rising up, bright and cheerful, “sense” emphasized, “of”, given no special treatment, and “adventure”, pitched highest of all.

“Must’ve lost it somewhere down the road,” Grif says, sourly.

“Huh! I will get Tucker, and we will look for it!” Caboose says. “Do not worry, Griff, we will find your adventure sense!”

Grif _swears_ he can hear the extra f. But it doesn’t matter, because blue boy trundles off to go bother someone else.

“I hate that idiot,” Grif says. “I hope the Freelancer chick breaks his neck.”

“She won’t,” Simmons sighs.

“I _know,”_ Grif gripes. “Ugh. I’m going to bed.”

“Me too,” Simmons says, in that confident-agreeable way that he does whenever he’s trying to butter somebody up. Usually Sarge.

About three seconds into Simmons trying to precariously sleep in the Warthog, slightly cramped because Grif is taking up most of the space ( but it’s better than sleeping on the ground ) Sarge slams his hand on the hood, jolting Grif awake and making Simmons yelp. They’re tangled together in a flail of “just-awoken-anger” and “oh-shit-what-is-it-sarge”, rendering both of them unable to get up.

“Wake up!”

“We weren’t even asleep!” Grif yells back. “What the fuck do you want!?”

“We need to get moving!”

“We _just stopped!”_

“I am _ashamed_ of you, son! We are going on a _quest!_ A journey! We cannot stop or sleep for even a moment! _Where is your sense of adventure!?”_

“Caboose is looking for it,” Simmons says, automatically.

“What the- You let the _blues_ hunt for our _valuable resources!?”_ Sarge rages. “You idiots wait here! I can handle one dirty blue-”

And he stomps off.

“Hoo,” Grif cranes his neck to watch him go. “Nice, Simmons.”

“Quick,” Simmons says, wearily. “Let’s power-nap before they make _us_ look for it.”

**CANVAS**

“Hahahahahahaha-”

“Shut up.”

“-AAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA-”

“Shut UP!”

“-H OOOOO HO HO HO HO HOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHH AHAHAHAHAHAAHAHA-”

“WE’VE ALREADY ESTABLISHED I HAVE NO ARTISTIC TALENT,” Simmons yells. “I don’t know what you were expecting!”

“IT LOOKS LIKE A WALRUS,” Grif howls.

“Then it’s accurate! You _look_ like a walrus!”

**WORRIED**

In their final stand in Hargrove’s ship,

They do not go uninjured.

It’s true that Tucker tears through nearly _everything,_ managing to swap between weapons and sword in perfect harmony, every movement swift and decisive, without fault or err. He turns Hargrove’s grunts into mincemeat, aided by a shotgun, the Grifshot, needlers, a rocket launcher, a shotgun, a sentient battle rifle, and the occasional fist or thrown projectile.

Donut gets a hole through his shoulder and cries out in pain. Doc snaps clean of O’Malley, ducking down, trying to help. Panic permeates the air, but still, no one breaks the line; no one runs, or gibbers, or stops doing anything but firing at whatever comes through the door.

The whole time Grif and Simmons are thinking of themselves, and one another. Their first thought is _oh god I don’t wanna die,_ closely followed by _oh god I hope he doesn’t die,_ and while they are afraid, they are afraid with others.

Grif gets a stray shot in the stomach. He screeches, in surprised pain, and Simmons’s head whips around.

“Pressure on the wound, soldier!” Sarge’s voice burns Simmons’s ear, but it’s all completely numb. “Idiot- Don’t just stand there!”

Simmons is shoved, by Sarge, head still tilted towards Grif, who’s groan-crying, as blood seeps out of the blackish undersuit of his armor. His chestplate has a few silver bullet dings amidst the orange paint, flecked, and Simmons wonders _how the fuck Grif had been so lucky, then so unlucky-_

A bullet wings Simmons’ helmet and reality rushes back onto him. Sarge’s pressing Grif’s own hands to the wound, pressing weight to stifle the flow, and Grif half-screams, trying to move his hands- it must hurt- but Sarge is stronger than he and he keeps them firm.

Simmons is not filled with a righteous, murderous, indignant rage. He does not fly into a tornado of death and vengeance, crying out for his beloved- he, instead, feels small and fearful and wants to throw up or perhaps cry. He’s seen Grif shot before- he’s been shot, himself- but it doesn’t get any better, any easier. Just because you’ve seen it before doesn’t mean that your stomach doesn’t _twist_ when your closest friend in the world is screaming bloody murder and bleeding from his intestines.

Grif’s _wracked_ in agony. All he can feel is the _pain._ It is not a sting, it is a red, hot blanket, pressed over his whole body, with a particular burn in his gut. Sarge won’t fucking move his hands, and it _hurts._

Simmons is staring at him, Grif knows that, but it’s only a faint pinging in his consciousness.

“Come the FUCK over here and keep your damn hands on your girlfriend! You’re _useless!”_ Sarge screams, faintly. There’s a lot of screaming.

And Sarge’s painful hands are replaced with Simmons’s, clumsy, pressing not hard enough, but enough to still _hurt._ Grif howls obscenities at him. It doesn’t occur to him they’re trying to keep him alive. All that matters is that they’re causing _pain._

Simmons is sweating underneath his helmet, the needler shooting of shards whenever he spares the glance from Grif’s squirming, bloody form.

 _I want to live,_ Grif thinks.

 _I want to live,_ Simmons thinks.

And Simmon is shot in the arm- and Grif cries out a late warning, the sound of _Simmon’s_ surprise and pain cutting through the haze of his own- and they both think, together:

_Oh, God- if you’re out there- please don’t let him die._

**SECOND**

Grif’s not sure about how he feels about _two_ Simmons. Simmonses. Simmons squared.

On one hand, that’s double the math jokes. Double the stupid D&D references. And they work better as a _duo._ A trio would be weird. Their rapport is based on response- one person says something, the other person says something, and having a third person would break the flow. And, honestly, he already hates having one neurotic loser whining in his ear about not polishing the guns or locking up the Warthog in the base.

On the _other_ hand, though, that means that he can have sex with two people at the same time.

“I’m gonna Darth Maul this and come back in a shitty video game!” Gene shrieks, defiantly, unwilling to come to terms with the fact that he will, on no uncertain terms, _die._

Yeah, just one Simmons is enough. Grif’ll leave two for fantasies.

**EASY**

Sex with Grif is easy.

They both take something away from it, Simmons thinks. That’s why it works so well. Simmons gets some control- the ability to take the reins and direct Grif, direct _himself,_ set the pace and set the mood, with only some light grumbling from Grif. And Grif gets the ability to not have to do anything in exchange for sex.

There’ll occasionally be the low request for increased speed or intensity, with, perhaps, an urgent smack on the leg or a desperate shift underneath him. Simmons gets a little bit of a power rush from his ability to deny or grant Grif’s request. It’s… A little like being in charge. And Grif, who’s mostly getting what he wants, is too lazy to sit up and yell at Simmons for not listening. He sort of lies back and _enjoys._ ( At least, most of the time. )

Simmons has looked it up ( Donut tried to help ) and he believes the _technical_ term for what Grif is is “pillow princess”, ( prince? ) which kind of makes sense. Grif is a little bratty and snarky, expecting everything to be done for him, while he doesn’t do shit. Kind of like a maiden in need of a rescue, or a spoiled, well, princess.

“Power bottom”, is the term for Simmons, which he kind of thinks means “dominating the whole sex thing despite the fact that it’s your ass that the dick goes into”. Simmons tried to raise the subject once or twice to Grif, because Simmons takes comforts in labeling things and packing them into neat little boxes, and he thought that Grif might, too.

But it wasn’t just amount of effort that goes into sex that they differed in. Grif doesn’t care _what_ he is, he cares that he gets pleasure with minimal pain or frustration in-between. Grif _likes_ their arrangement. It’s like having someone feed you cookies, with the only stipulation being he had to move his head occasionally in order to eat. Who _wouldn’t_ be happy with that?

Circling back… Despite the fact that Grif didn’t do anything during, the sex was _easy._ Maybe not physically. But it was an outlet for both of them, one that _worked,_ and there wasn’t any awkwardness after, only understanding.

Simmons, who was always too tightly wound, was tired.

Grif, who was always tired, was tired.

It worked. Easily.

**OUTRAGEOUS**

“You two are _dating?”_ Sarge puffs up like a red balloon, his chest swelling with supreme indignation. “This is shocking! Scandalous! Appalling! _Outrageous!”_

No one else seems to be as disturbed. Donut is bouncing slightly on the backs of his heels, and Lopez lets out a robotic sigh, the universal sign of _you’re wasting my time, let me go back to work._

“IIIIIIII _knew_ it!” Donut cries, triumphantly. “This makes me want to _scream_ in ecstasy!”

“Donut, be quiet!” Sarge orders, wagging a threatening finger in Grif and Simmons’s direction. “I’ll court-martial these two! No relationships in rank! Once you get dating, then you start having kids, and you end up traitorous dirtbags who wear khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt while mowing your lawn, like some kind of _civilian!”_

“Sir, we’re two _men-”_ Simmons tries, ( to which Grif snorts at in amusement, which Simmons ignores, though his ears glow red. ) “We can’t have kids.”

“You can adopt!” Sarge counters.

“I don’t _want_ kids,” Grif folds his arms.

“Does _Simmons?”_

Simmons’s mouth opens, and Grif kicks him, warningly.

“No,” Simmons says, wisely.

“How can you not want _kids!?_ Fatherhood is the ultimate test of manliness! You two should be ashamed!” Sarge roars.

“Uh, sorry, sir, I just think that society places too much pressure on a couple to get married and have kids, sir, and I want to bring one up in a good environment, and _not_ in the middle of war...?” Simmons attempts.

Sarge seems to consider this.

“Fine, but you dirtbags are on short notice! If I see _one_ kid around here, I swear, I’m gonna…” He streams off into grumbles, that sound like “durgle-frangit-grassel-nabbit”, and so on.

Sarge walks off, likely to find a more interesting target to yell at, like the grass, the sky, any nearby birds, or, perhaps, the Blues, who can’t even hear them from this distance.

“I have to show you guys how to _scrapbook!”_ Donut gushes in Sarge’s absence. “I usually scrapbook alone, but now it’ll be a threesome!”

“Shut up, Donut,” Grif and Simmons say together.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Whenever I'm having a bad day, or especially frustrated, writing this kind of thing helps me relax.


End file.
